


A Love Story (As Told Through Pie)

by TC (thecollective)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pi Day, Pie, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:20:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone is secretly delivering pie to the bunker while Dean is asleep. Dean doesn't question it because, hey, it's pie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love Story (As Told Through Pie)

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Written by the Collectress for the Collectiva Diva. Follow the Collectress on twitter @dearcollectress

The first time it happened, Dean assumed that Sam had lost his mind, because in no logical reality would there be a freshly baked cherry pie waiting for him in the kitchen of the bunker.

"Wasn’t me,” was all Sam said about the pie. Well, that and a mumbled, “That’s one way to get him to eat fruit.”

Dean ignored him and ate the whole pie for breakfast.

The second time Dean woke up to pie, Dean assumed that Sam had lied to him about the first one.

“Wasn’t me,” Sam said again.

Sam’s smirk was anything but innocent.

“Yeah, well, then who was it? Pies don’t just make themselves.”

 “No, they don’t,” agreed Sam.

 “So how’d it get here?” Dean questioned. There wasn’t even a window a pie could fly in through!

 Sam smirked at him again, and all Dean wanted to do was slap the smile straight from his brother’s face.

 “What kind of pie is that?”

The pie was pecan this time, and it was so sweet that he couldn’t eat the entire pie for breakfast. So he decided to have it for lunch too.

“Pecan? Cut me a piece!” commanded Sam.

“Who says I’d share?”

Sam gave him Bitchface #4, with a dash of puppy dog eyes thrown in. How Sam accomplished the feat of looking both judgmental and pathetic in one facial gesture, Dean had no idea. So Dean cut him a piece of pie, mostly because he’d get less flack for eating pie if Sam had some too, but also because Dean had a hard time denying Sam anything.

Sam had a look of euphoria on his face as he tasted the pie, and it probably matched Dean’s own. The brothers ate together, and it was the most relaxed they had been in ages, it seemed. No Big Bads to fight. No Kings of Hell to dethrone or summon or lock up in the basement. No impending doom. Just the Winchesters, being brotherly and normal, with the exception of spontaneously appearing pies.

Life was good.

“So, level with me, man. You really didn’t get this pie?” Dean asked, mouth full of pie. God, it tasted good.

“No, Dean, I didn’t,” Sam said. “You know how I feel about your ‘eating’ habits.” He air quoted “eating.”

“Then who the hell did? It’s just you and me here, Sammy!”

“Who indeed,” was all Sam said in reply.

Dean huffed and stomped out of the kitchen, taking the pie with him.

“Sharing is caring!” Sam called after him.

“Get your own!” Dean yelled back.

The third time pie spontaneously appeared, Dean was _in the kitchen_. It was early—it had been one of _those_ nights again, the kind where he dreamed only of burning nurseries and yellow eyes—and he was waiting (impatiently) for the coffee machine to finish its damn job. Finally, _finally_ , after a dozen years, it was done and…what was the smell?

He turned around and there, on the table, was fresh apple pie, just like his mom used to make. How the hell did pie just _appear_ in the room he was standing in without— _oh_.

It was too early for this shit. Too early to think about angelic pie-giving, so he took his cup of joe and went back to bed.

When Dean woke up (again), he decided that pie would make a good lunch. Sam had left a note on his door—“went to town for groceries because pie is NOT a recognized food group. -S”—and Dean noticed that the Impala keys were missing. May Metatron smite Sam if there was one scratch on Baby when he came home.

Yup, time for pie.

Dean discovered that _someone_ had put his apple pie all the way in the back of the fridge. On the bottom shelf. Meaning that he had to do a quasi-Downward-facing-dog to get to it. Great. It’s like they were trying to hide the pie. Who would do that? Sam, that’s who.

“Dean.”     

The Winchester jumped so abruptly that he smacked his head on a shelf in the fridge. Like a slow-motion sequence, he lost his balance and the pie slipped out of his hands. It landed face-down on the tiled floor with a squishy thud. “ _Ouch!”_

Firm hands gripped him tight around the waist and pulled him up on his feet. “Dean, are you alright?” asked Cas. The angel sounded worried, and, was he _healing_ him? Dean tried to step back but the angel held tight, one hand on his waist and the other pressed to his forehead.

“Cas, whoa, man. I’m fine. No need for the mojo. I just hit my head a little. See?” He motioned to his head. “Not even any blood.”

Castiel frowned. “There could be internal bleeding. Or a concussion.”

“Cas, I’m _fine_. Let go.”

The angel did, but he did it reluctantly. He looked at the pie at Dean’s feet. “Your pie is ruined.”

“Yes, and you’re Sherlock Holmes.”

“I do not understand.”

“Never mind.” For all the years that Castiel had been around the Winchesters, he had never learned _half_ of what Dean would deem necessary pop culture references. He turned away to grab a towel to clean up the tragically-demised pie, and when he turned back around, Castiel was standing _very_ close, with the whole-miraculously-not-dead-on-the-floor apple pie in his hands.

“Um...how?”

Castiel looked a little sheepish. “I, uh, may have healed it.”

” _You healed my pie_?” How was that even possible?

“Well it was a simple matter of rearranging molecules and atomical structure to fit the pattern of the previous physical representation of your pie.”

“That is simple?”

Castiel shrugged, and the action was so human that it reminded Dean of a short period of time when Cas had worn a blue vest and made slushies.

“Why would you do that, Cas? It’s just a pie.”

Castiel shrugged again.

“Cas, have you been bringing me pies?”

Cas replied, “Yes.”

“Why?”

Dean expected a hesitation, that Cas wouldn’t know how to explain it in human terms, that his angelic otherworldliness would make him awkward once again. Dean was wrong.

“I want you to be happy,” explained Castiel. “Pie makes you happy. Sam told me so.”

He _knew_ it. Of course Sam had been involved.

“You and your brother have done so much for the world,” continued Castiel. “Why should I not provide happiness for you when I can?”

“But you didn’t bring Sam pie,” Dean countered.

Castiel _smirked,_ and Dean knew that he’d need to limit the amount of time the angel spent with his brother. “Sam does not want pie to be happy. Sam told me that to make him happy, I had to make _you_ happy. He told me to tell you, specifically, that you are Andie, I am Duckie, and that we are pretty in pink. I don’t know what that means but he insists that we get the ending right,” Cas said.

Dean made a mental note to kill Sam later for comparing his life to a 80s teen movie (even if it was _the_ 80s teen movie and Andie was _supposed_ to end up with Duckie and not the douchebag rich kid).  “Never mind what Sam said for now, Cas. Why _do you_ want me to be happy?” Dean asked.

Without pause Cas replied, “Because that will make me happy.”

Well, that was unexpected. Not Castiel’s admission, but rather his own reaction to it. He wanted to be happy if that’s what Castiel wanted, and the thought wasn’t as strange to him as it should have been. He grabbed a fork and filled it up with pie and offered it to Castiel.

“This is your pie, Dean.”

“Yes, but I _want_ to share it.”

“Why?”

Dean smiled and for once it wasn’t sardonic or smirking or flirtatious. He was smiling because he was happy, damn it. It felt good. “I want you to share my pie because it will make me happy,” Dean told him.

Castiel took the offered fork. He chewed the pie slowly, unused to the process. “I think it needs more cinnamon,” he said, “I can clearly taste that the recommended half teaspoon was insufficient.”

“Cas, you _made_ me this pie?”

“Yes, I made all three pies. Sam said that—oof!”

Dean kissed Castiel, and the taste of apple pie on the angel’s lips made Dean _very_ happy. He supposed that now whenever he ate apple pie, he’d think of this moment, and he was very, very okay with that. At some point during the kiss, Sam walked in humming Otis Redding’s “Try a Little Tenderness,” and Dean made a point to disentangle a hand from Castiel’s hair to flip his brother off.

Dean didn’t stop kissing Castiel until his lungs told him to take a time out. When they had separated, the angel’s eyebrows furrowed, and then Castiel said, “The pizza man never prepared me for that. It’s…different. I liked it. Why did you do that?”

Dean smiled, and it felt even better this time. “I’m doing what Sam told me to,” he said, “I’m getting the ending right.” Then he kissed Castiel again.

FIN

 

 


End file.
